


Next Time

by LiraelClayr007



Series: Bucky Barnes Bingo! [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (it's actually more like self-neglect but i'm being safe), Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Massage, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26261404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/pseuds/LiraelClayr007
Summary: Clint's nightmares often drive him to the range in the middle of the night, where he pushes his body harder than he should to try to get rid of the images in his brain. When Bucky finds him there, both of them get rather more than they're expecting.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Bucky Barnes Bingo! [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807465
Comments: 24
Kudos: 95
Collections: Bucky Barnes Bingo 2020, Winterhawk Bingo Round Two





	Next Time

**Author's Note:**

> Filling two bingo squares with this one!!
> 
> Bucky Barnes Bingo: knives - K1  
> Winterhawk Bingo: massage - G4

Clint sends his arrows down the range, one after the other, not even looking to see where they hit. He knows, anyway. He makes intricate patterns–spelling his name, outlining the targets, drawing the shape of a man then shooting it in the eyes, in the throat, in the heart.

It doesn’t help.

He feels the nightmare with every draw. The numbness, the cold calculations, the blind obedience.

The worst part, the part that makes his stomach roil and his head swim, is remembering how _good_ it felt to obey. Blissful. Like putting on a pair of jeans he’s had for five years, washed so many times they’re worn just right. Like the first gulp of coffee first thing in the morning, singing on his tongue and zipping through his veins.

His muscles ache, then burn, but still he shoots, emptying his quiver over and over...and over. A tiny voice whispers if he can just shoot enough, if he can just fall completely into his body and out of his mind, he’ll be able to destroy his personal demons. Or at least exorcise them for a little while.

He lets out a hysterical giggle. Get it? Ex **or** cise? Ex **er** cise? You’re a fucking genius, Barton.

When the noise comes behind him he doesn’t think, only reacts. He spins on the ball of his foot, bow drawn, aimed true.

Bucky doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

“I couldn’t sleep either.”

Clint lowers his bow. Too out of breath to speak, he just nods.

Bucky nods too, downrange. “Nicely done. Can I help?” Before Clint can answer Bucky’s unstrapping knives from their sheaths and flinging them toward the targets, black and silver flashing in the dimly lit range. The knives thunk home in the man-shaped target Clint made out of arrows–one in the forehead, one in the gut, and one in each knee.

He’s poetry with a blade. Clint’s seen him before, of course, but never like this, never up close and focused and _easy_.

“Nice,” Clint says. Or tries to. It’s more of an unintelligible croak that comes from his mouth. He tries to clear his throat but his mouth has gone dry, and it’s then he realizes he probably should have had some water, and probably shouldn’t have gone at the training quite so hard.

But he’d had to. Anything, _anything_ , to get rid of the fucking nightmares.

Bucky’s face is doing strange things, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, like maybe he’s standing at the end of a tunnel. But that doesn’t make sense, he’s only a few yards away. He reaches up to check his aids, only then realizing that his hand won’t obey, and that he’s lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. When did that happen? And how?

Yeah, definitely some water next time.

He hears Bucky and JARVIS going on about something, time maybe? Or hours? And then he hears something about water and that makes him open his eyes and hey, when had he _closed_ his eyes?

When he manages to get his eyes open all he can see is Bucky. Bucky, kneeling beside him, leaning over him, giant anxious eyes staring at him. The look is all concern until Clint manages a weak smile, then Bucky _beams_. The only person Clint’s ever seen truly turn into a beacon of joy like that is Rogers, and that’s never been directed at _him_ before; having Bucky look at him like that…

“You had me worried. JARVIS said you’d been training nonstop for nearly five hours. Without any water.” There’s a bit of reproach at the end there, but Clint focuses on the smile tugging at the corners of Bucky’s lips.

Bucky’s lips. He licks his own lips, suddenly aware how chapped and dry they are from lack of water. Suddenly aware that he’d like them to be softer, nicer, because maybe he’d like to use them for something besides speaking sometime in the near future.

And then Bucky’s arm is around him, pulling him upright, so he can sip from the bottle of water at his lips. Clint doesn’t remember the bottle getting there, but he just goes with it. Most everything seems to be going in and out anyway. Eventually he’ll be all awake again.

“Easy,” Bucky says, his tone low and soothing. “Just little sips.”

The water is the best thing Clint’s ever tasted. He tries to reach up to hold the water on his own, or at least help, but before he can reach the bottle he’s overcome by pain and nausea. He cries out, losing some of the water in the process, and almost choking on more.

Aw, water, no.

“Shoulder?” Bucky asks. His voice is still calm, still soothing, and even as Clint gives a very abbreviated because of pain nod he feels the effects of Bucky’s calm helping to ground him.

“Maybe I pushed a little too hard,” Clint says, avoiding eye contact. Bucky huffs a noncommittal noise.

After a breath of silence, Bucky says, “Let me help?” Clint’s eyes snap back to Bucky’s, looking for _something_ in that mysterious blue. “Just trust me,” Bucky says, and that’s enough.

“I’ve done this too, you know.” Bucky, still holding Clint in a sitting position, eases him to the floor. Then, as if it’s nothing, _he pulls his sweatshirt over his head_. Clint’s somewhat thankful he’s wearing a t-shirt underneath, though in pulling off the sweatshirt the t-shirt rides up, and Clint is treated to an all too brief glimpse of Bucky’s bare stomach.

Bucky’s still talking, and it takes Clint’s brain some effort to go back to listening to the words instead of thinking about that bare strip of skin. “...elf too hard, and had to pay the price after.” As he speaks, still gentle and low, he rolls Clint onto his stomach, folds the sweatshirt, and puts it under Clint’s head. “Not much of a pillow,” he says, interrupting his own narrative, “but it’ll do.”

Clint closes his eyes and listens to Bucky’s voice, breathes what he suddenly realizes must be the scent of Bucky. Leather, metal, the oil he uses to clean his weapons, and–very faintly–chocolate. It’s a good smell, almost as comforting as the voice swirling around him.

“A hot bath would help, but this is better. Stevie’s always goin’ on about human contact and all that; and please don’t tell him I said this, but in this case I’m pretty sure he’s right.” And then Bucky climbs on top of him, straddling his lower back but keeping all the weight on his own knees, firm on the floor on either side of Clint. Even with all this it’s not until he feels Bucky’s hands on his shoulder that he realizes what it is Bucky means to do.

“Ohhhhh.” The sounds coming from Clint’s mouth are close to obscene, but it feels too good for him to care. “Buck, that’s…”

Bucky chuckles. “Again, don’t tell Stevie. Punk. He’s the one who taught me how to give a proper massage. Said I had to learn so when he gets sore I can ‘ease his suffering.’” Clint can’t see Bucky, but he can pretty much hear the eyeroll. “Such a drama queen, that one.”

“Thank god for Captain fucking America.” Clint’s babbling in between his moans, going on about Bucky’s magical hands and needing this after every mission because Nat’s hands are nice but are too small and the others are great but how do you just walk up to someone and ask for a massage? And every time Bucky’s hands touch the bare skin of his neck his brain just whites out, just _stops_ , because it’s soft and electric all at once and he can’t compute.

But if he says anything odd, or if Bucky notices the odd stops and starts in his speech, he doesn’t say anything. He just keeps going, working the cramps and the stiffness out of his shoulders and arms and neck until Clint feels like he must be just a puddle on the floor of the range.

He doesn’t want Bucky to stop. He doesn’t want Bucky to _ever_ stop. But eventually he says, “Bucky. If you don’t stop soon you’re going to relax me right to sleep. What’re you gonna do then, carry me to bed?”

As soon as the words are out he wishes he could draw them back somehow. Because of course Bucky _could_ carry him to bed; Bucky may be smaller than Clint but he’s the Winter fucking Soldier. He could probably carry _two_ Clints to bed and not break a sweat. But he’s here doing something nice, something he doesn’t have to do, and then Clint has to say something to maybe ruin it just because he’s all sleepy and comfy and suddenly realizing that he wants more from Bucky than someone to hang out on the range with or sit by on movie nights. Those things are great–but so are his hands, and his big blue eyes, and the way he makes fun of Steve while making it clear that Steve’s his best friend and always will be. He’s strong and sweet at the same time, and fuck all if Clint doesn’t want _everything_ with Bucky...and when did _that_ happen?

There are fingers in his hair now; not tugging, just a reassuring touch. When the backs of Bucky’s fingers trace Clint’s jawline he lets his eyes flutter open to see Bucky sitting on the floor next to him, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“I really don’t want to undo all that relaxin’ I just poured into your muscles,” Bucky says. “Think maybe we can save the goin’ to bed part for next time?”

“Sure,” pops out of Clint’s mouth before he even thinks about it. Then, “Wait, what? Next time?”

The fluttering in his chest is something new, something unexpected.

It’s hope.

The smile on Bucky’s lips becomes genuine. “You heard that, did you?”

Clint wants to jump up, but he’s still just a puddle. Instead he grins, asks innocently, “Is kissing safe tonight? I wouldn’t want to do anything against my doct–”

He’s laughing when Bucky rolls him onto his back and cuts off his words with a kiss soft as butterfly wings. They smile into each other’s mouths, and Clint’s never had a better first kiss.

Or second.

Or third.

**Author's Note:**

> **Bonus Scene**
> 
> -for Squaddy and Nora, because they asked 
> 
> Clint blinks drowsy eyes at Bucky. “So. _Are_ you gonna carry me to bed, or do I have to sleep here?”
> 
> His grin is lopsided and tinged with exhaustion, and all Bucky wants to do is kiss that adorable face some more. But he’s more in control of himself than that.
> 
> That’s what he tells himself, anyway.
> 
> Because he has to kiss _something_ , he takes Clint’s hand in his and kisses his wrist, then his palm. “I think something can be arranged,” he says. “I don’t want you to wake up on this floor with a stiff neck. Or to try to get back to your floor yourself and trip over your own feet.”
> 
> “I wouldn’t–” Clint starts to protest, but Bucky silences him with a finger to his lips.
> 
> “Barton, you’re graceful as a ballerina with a bow in your hands, and damn near as pretty, but you have a knack for injuring yourself.”
> 
> “I don’t know what you’re–” Clint mumbles against Bucky’s finger. This time it’s just Bucky’s stare that stops him.
> 
> “Fine. I concede.” Clint’s wink is sloppy with sleep, and Bucky has to hold himself still again. “But only ‘cause I want you to carry me to bed.”
> 
> As if Bucky needs to be talked into it.
> 
> Kissing Clint’s palm again, he says, “Think you can wait for me to clean up? I don’t particularly want to wake up to a lecture from Stark about leaving my weapons all over the range.”
> 
> Clint nods. Bucky can see that he’s still pretty blissed out from the massage and the rather extensive make-out session afterward. Bucky’s pretty far gone himself; he’d gone from waking up screaming from another horrible nightmare to finding Clint at the range to watching Clint nearly pass out to feeling Clint’s muscles under his hands to feeling Clint’s lips against his own. Not exactly what he’d expected from the evening.
> 
> The knives go back in their sheaths–”How many knives do you have on you, anyway?” “More than the four I threw…”–and the arrows are returned to their proper place in the armory. The bow gets hung up as well; Clint tells him it’s just a practice bow, not one of his _good_ bows. Those are upstairs. Apparently Clint is a bit of a snob when it comes to his bows. Bucky has to turn away to hide his smile.
> 
> “Alright, let’s get you up,” he says, easing Clint up to a sitting position. Clint’s not going to make this easy, he really is about half asleep already so isn’t helping much. His head falls forward onto Bucky’s shoulder and he makes a happy humming sound, burrowing his face a little deeper into Bucky’s neck.
> 
> “Can’t you help a little? I can’t even get my sweatshirt back on.” He’s able to grab it from the floor where Clint had been using it as a pillow but before he can begin to even try to pull it on Clint, showing far more alertness than Bucky expects, snatches it away from him.
> 
> “Mine!”
> 
> Even though he’s fair exasperated, Bucky laughs. “It won’t even fit you. Your arms are twice as long as mine.”
> 
> “Makes a nice pillow,” Clint murmurs, clutching at the fabric.
> 
> Bucky sighs, then gives in and kisses Clint’s cheek. “It’s yours then, sweetheart,” he says, and he knows then he’s gone soft for this fella. “Can we get you to bed, though? You really need to sleep.”
> 
> Somehow they manage to both get to their feet. “Now hold on,” Bucky says, and he scoops Clint into his arms.
> 
> It should be ridiculous. Clint’s got so much height on him it should just feel silly, like a toddler carrying a teenager. But somehow it just feels...right. Clint belongs here, in his arms, his own arms draped around Bucky’s neck. Clint’s heartbeat against his chest, his breath tickling his ear.
> 
> The walk to the elevator, the ride up to Clint’s floor, it’s all over so fast. Too fast. Before he knows it he’s easing Clint out of his arms and onto his bed.
> 
> His arms feel empty.
> 
> Clint looks up at him, biting his lip, like he’s deciding something. Bucky’s about to just say goodnight when Clint blurts out, “Stay?”
> 
> Bucky freezes.
> 
> “Not for sex.” Clint stumbles over the words, trying to hurry in his overtired state. “I’m too tired for sex anyway. But just...stay? I think there’s a pair of sweatpants in the bottom drawer,” he adds, nodding toward the dresser.
> 
> Bucky just looks at Clint for another full minute. Finally he says, “Yeah, and I’m sure they’re about three feet too long for me.” But he’s already at the dresser when he says it. He finds two pairs, pulls them both out, and throws one at Clint. “Wear something comfortable to sleep,” he says.
> 
> “Yes sir,” Clint says, only a little mockingly.
> 
> It only takes one night to learn that cuddles are a good defence against nightmares. Even better than time at the range.


End file.
